


Beside You in Time

by jefferfieldheaven



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: (Okay maybe it's more like a Medium Burn), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Happy Ending, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Manipulation, Masturbation, Maxine "Max" Caulfield Still Has Powers, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Oral Sex, Photography, References to Abuse, References to Canon, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Somnophilia, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teenage Drama, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jefferfieldheaven/pseuds/jefferfieldheaven
Summary: Meeting Mark Jefferson was more than a dream come true. More than delving into photography together and more than having a crush on him. It was so much more than Max Caulfield could ever anticipate. More than a sweet mystery, more than his dark secrets. The handsome professor finds himself obsessed with his gorgeous, innocent student like never before. And then the universe throws the two of them into something they both have a hard time wrapping their minds around.





	1. Nice to Meet You, Where've You Been?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Dear Readers! Here I come with another Jefferfield work. I'm very excited for this one, a little nervous too, but I do hope you'll enjoy :)
> 
> First, I'd like to clear some things up:
> 
> 1\. This work doesn't have Archive warnings, which, understandably, may discourage some people from reading. However, just as it is evident in the game, Mark Jefferson doesn't abuse his victims sexually. Never has, never will. There will be no descriptions of such nature, either. But I can understand if you're just uncomfortable with reading about this character, it's okay to click off. 
> 
> 2\. This work was inspired by the two *best* stories in our tiny fandom: Lunavere's "Chiaroscuro" and Sevotharte's "Capturing Your Soul". If you haven't read them yet, I strongly recommend that you do!
> 
> 3\. I loved the way licensed music was added to the game. I wanted to retain a similar vibe in this ff as well. If you're familiar with my other multichapter work, "Made for Another Time", you may know I use this odd symbol: "{♪ "Song" – Artist}" . It's to signify that the song plays during the scene. It's a complete gimmick that you can ignore, but it does add to the storytelling. 
> 
> 4\. I'm not a native speaker of English. I do my best to research the vocabulary and grammar, and to eliminate typos, but sometimes there may still be errors. I apologize in advance 😅
> 
> With these out of the way, again, I hope you'll enjoy your stay here. Comments are more than welcomed – long, short, whatever. They always make my day :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...I could show you incredible things._
> 
> — Taylor Swift

_beauty lies inside the eye _

_ of another youthful dream _

_ that doesn't sell its soul for self-esteem, _

_ that's not plasticine _

— PLACEBO

 

* * *

**_Tuesday, September 3, 2013_ **

{♪ “Golden Hour” – Jonathan Morali}

Max stood before Jeremiah Blackwell’s pompous, coppery monument, its pedestal dipped in the very middle of a round, brick fountain, right in front of the main entrance to the school. She read the academy’s flagship mantra, “FUTURE NEEDS EXCELLENCE,” wondering if she was capable of upholding its high standard. Yes, she’d been accepted on a scholarship, and the famous photography professor had written back that she was “a promising project” in the welcome letter, but it was more than certain that Blackwell had had many exquisite, aspiring artists attend their lectures over the years. So, obviously, self-doubt was ever-present in Max’s mind. She was going to have to give it her very best here.

She also hoped she was going to fit in with at least _some_ students she’d already met within these walls, despite being strung up by shyness, anxiety and insecurity since she could remember. Keeping her grades up was definitely going to be a difficult task, but all the social dysfunction? Max didn’t really want to think about it. She knew very well that artists were more than capable of being pretentious and oftentimes arrogant, but the school prided itself for both its art and science programs. Perhaps not everyone here thought too highly of themselves.

Shaking off her worries for a second, Max decided to take a few deep, calming breaths before entering the building.

 _Just focus on what you actually came here for. Or rather…for whom_.

Getting to finally meet one of her biggest inspirations was a dream come true and something she’d definitely worked hard for. Her parents and her friends from Seattle would right now tell her— _yet again_ —that she shouldn’t be too tough on herself, but to instead be _proud_ of this achievement.

 _Right. Relax, it can’t be that bad_.

With that in mind, she smiled to herself, and marched forward, step by step, still anxious, but with a dose of actual excitement as well.

 

Meanwhile, the aforementioned professor—none other than Mark Jefferson himself—was in his office, sitting at his desk, ensconced in the black leather chair, which allowed his sore back muscles to rest comfortably against the soft upholstering. He hadn’t had much sleep during the night, and needed to retain just a bit of energy before starting his day at work. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts, which involuntarily trailed off where he preferred not to trace back—where it hurt the most.

He clenched his jaw in anger at the memory. Why was he thinking about it _today?_ Nothing had changed in the matter in _decades_ ; he was feeling just as numb as always. But perhaps the new academic year could really be a new beginning? A new model to capture, or maybe even another protégé as well? He could certainly use those.

 _It’ll be quite a search, though_.

Indeed, not a whole lot of promising, new talent often graced the Blackwell halls. The youth here was more absorbed in the secret cliques, party life and medicating oneself, rather than academic pursuit. Sometimes Mark wondered why they chose to study art which they clearly didn’t seek in everyday life. Everything was to bolster their egos or to “have a blast.” Yes, there _were_ some more dedicated students in his class, apart from those truly eager ones, but merely taking an interest in photography never rendered any of them exceptional, no matter how hard Mark might’ve fought to foster and polish that talent.

He now snapped out of his agonizing thoughts and glanced at his wrist watch—nearly 11am; time to start the first lecture of the semester. He stood up from the desk, pushed the chair back to its tidy place, and exited his office, locking it behind.

Striding towards the Art classroom, he glimpsed with disgust at the dingy Blackwell hallways. For such a prestigious school, funded by quite wealthy parents, surely there must have been a way to improve its quality.

 _Apparently not. Whiskey costs good money, too_.

As his sight left the shabby, steel lockers, it then found something profoundly mesmerizing. It was as though time slowed down, and someone purposefully shone a light on the subject to expose and emphasize its presence. He immediately stopped his walk. Breath died in his lungs and his heart skipped a beat. The usual clamor faded into the back of his mind.

Beautiful, wide eyes were staring into his own, beaming with a blend of excitement and astonishment. In that very second, her cheeks suffused with a lovely, pink blush, and she offered him an endearing, coy smile. She nervously bit down on her bottom lip and tucked a strand of her jaw-length, light brown hair behind her ear. A short bangs covered her forehead, adding to her overall charm. Standing on the opposite side of the hallway, there she was—a tiny beauty; innocence painted all over her gentle face. She was absolutely gorgeous. _Perfect_.

Silhouettes of students passing by along the hallway separated Mark from this astounding image; flashing like a shutter, yet interrupting the flawless photograph instead of capturing it. Oh, what he would give to immortalize this exact, pure expression in that very moment.

Max couldn’t quite believe her own eyes either. The music in her earphones actually swayed as she locked eyes with Mark Jefferson—yes, _the_ Mark Jefferson, right there, in the flesh—as though to forecast a crucial moment in a film. She’d barely even made proper steps in the building, and _this_ was the first image that greeted her? She glanced over her shoulder, thinking he must’ve been looking at literally anyone else but her, yet it seemed his dreamy, mesmerized stare _was_ meant for her. Feeling her cheeks get way too warm for her own good, she scampered away towards her locker. It was on the way to the Art classroom anyway.

Mark continued to take those mental photographs, memorizing every little feature of her face—that is, as much as he was able to with the distance between them.

Flash after flash after flash…until she disappeared into the crowd. So many details yet to intake. No chance to gaze back.

And he just stood there—frozen, speechless, stumped.

Max hurriedly unpacked a couple of textbooks, slammed the locker shut, and then quickly made her way to the classroom, desperately attempting to subdue her anxiety, which had her heart ramming itself in her ribcage like a startled, feral animal.

Stepping over the threshold, she noticed most of the students had already arrived and claimed their posts. Thankfully, the perfect seat hadn’t been taken yet—the one at the very end of the room. When she’d been still in Seattle, she’d always hidden at the back of the class, shielding herself from any attention. She hoped this remote place would help her retain stealth here as well.

With that flawless image ripped away from him far too soon, Mark had no other choice but to head to his upcoming lecture. He knew these halls by heart, and even with all its usual turmoil, Blackwell students were cautious not to bump into their professors, thus he was able to mindlessly tear through the crowd, eventually finding himself at his destination. His thoughts were wholly consumed by the tiny beauty; she’d seemed like an impeccable daydream. He was almost certain he’d imagined her.

But he hadn’t. And the odds must have really been in his favor today.

There she was again—sitting at the very back of his classroom, tightly embracing herself, her arms crossed and her hands clenched around the elbows. She was evidently anxious not to cast any attention on herself. Mark knew this shy type of students—ones who wished they could be allowed to simply listen and absorb knowledge like a sponge, without being forced to participate. That kind, or complete slackers, who he deeply despised. He hoped she wasn’t the latter.

Having a longer glance at her, he noticed she’d already unpacked her items: a notebook, the required textbook, another book he couldn’t identify from where he was standing, and something quite unique among his students—a vintage, yellow Polaroid camera.

 _Peculiar_ , Mark thought. The vast majority of his students opted to use digital cameras, those on the rather expensive side of the spectrum. But not her. No, _this_ new girl seemed like a rare gem. And because of that, he wasn’t going to grant her wish. She wasn’t going to be invisible in his classroom. Not to him.

Max looked up from her desk and glanced ahead, noticing Mark Jefferson. There he was again, his eyes focused on her. She felt a rush of heat to her cheeks and closed her eyes in defeat.

That lovely blush snapped Mark out of his little reverie, reminding him that he needed to regain his composure. He had never been the one to lose it this easily, so it was all the more crucial now that he keep up appearances. If anyone noticed his pull towards a student—a possibly _underage_ student—it would only bring trouble, from which he certainly would rather stay away.

He was known as a laid-back, “hip”, “cool”, what-have-you teacher. Many students considered him their favorite, especially those who arrived at Blackwell specifically to study photography under his guidance. He championed eager students, and stuck up for those in need of defending. Kids here could count on him to soften Principal Wells’ ever-unwavering decision-making—that is, if the claims had grounds. And yes, some of those acts were forced, but they certainly earned Mark his reputation.

But besides these qualities, it was otherwise difficult to read him. “Mr. Jefferson” was an enigma for the most part. He kept his private life painstakingly separate from his work, which was exactly what made him so irresistible in the eyes of the young female students in particular. He was a mystery waiting to be solved, yet so out-of-reach that any attempts to capture his attention like this were undoubtedly out of the question.

 _Let it stay this way_ , Mark scolded himself one last time.

“Good morning, everybody,” he enthusiastically greeted the class, walking towards his desk. “Are we all here?” He and all the present students looked around the room. “I believe it to be so. We shall start then.”

Max clutched to her favorite pen, ready to take in and write down all of Mark Jefferson’s words.

“Alright, perhaps I should start by introducing myself.” A light murmur of laughter filled the classroom for a few moments, causing Mr. Jefferson to flash a tiny smirk. “Yes, I know, _I know_ , I am a completely unknown face,” he jested, putting his hand to his chest. “But I simply wanted to note that, as ‘hip’ as I might appear, you should still address me as ‘ _Mr_. Jefferson’, since that is the general consensus at the academy.”

 _Maybe it won’t be so bad. He seems chill_ , Max deduced. Feeling excited instead of dreadfully anxious was surely a better option.

Mr. Jefferson then walked towards his desk, sat down, pulled up the laptop which was lying on the desk, and perused through its contents. “Alright,” he continued. “I’ve seen your portfolios, now it’s time to associate them with your faces.”

Max gawked ahead and held her breath as her anxiety decided to take the lead after all. Having a last name that began with “C” meant being (almost) at the top of the list. And if each student was to additionally introduce themselves in front of strangers…

 _Oh god, please don’t let me be first, please don’t let me be first, **please don’t let me be first**_ …

“Anderson Alyssa?” Mr. Jefferson called out. Max exhaled with relief, albeit a bit too loudly, which earned her an odd, slightly scrutinizing glare from the professor.

_Shit. Great job, dummy._

Sitting at the closest desk to Mr. Jefferson’s, a chubby girl lifted her hand. “Here,” she replied, sounding rather grimly. It appeared she had a bit of a stiff expression on her face as well. What stood out the most, though, were her pink highlights on her shoulder-length, brown hair.

_She looks so cool. I could never pull that off._

In her own typical fashion, Max didn’t focus on the questions Mr. Jefferson was posing to her classmate right now. Rays of pre-noon sunshine flickered through the large windows to her right. That was one of her absolute favorite sights in the world. Simple, yet beautiful. And it literally capable of brightening her day.

“Caulfield Maxine?” Mr. Jefferson called out next, ripping Max away from her thoughts, and his eyes began their search of the owner of the name.

_Fuck!_

Perhaps spacing out was her defense mechanism; it eased her anxiety even if a tiny bit. But it always caused her more trouble than it was worth. Was Alyssa asked to say a few words about herself? Max didn’t know the answer to that.

“Here,” Max said faintly, and lifted her hand up. Heat was blowing up in her cheeks, and if Mr. Jefferson hadn’t _heard_ her, he’d certainly noticed her. He was actually smiling at her. She cleared her throat and echoed, “Here,” a bit more firmly this time. “And, uh…sir?”

“Yes, Ms. Caulfield?”

“It’s just Max, please? Never Maxine.”

For whatever reason, Max despised her full name. She never liked it, not even when friends used it in an affectionate way. To her, “Maxine” sounded abrasive, kind of…rough, and old-fashioned.

The smile on the professor’s lips turned into a smirk. “Alright. I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he said. “I must say your portfolio is quite impressive…Max.”

_No way. He’s impressed?_

“Oh, uh…thank you, sir,” Max replied, almost sounding out of breath.

“You are quite welcome, Max. I am very much looking forward to seeing what else you can do,” Mr. Jefferson added, and then moved onto the next student.

Victoria Chase. A very skilled, confident, and patronizing individual. Apparently, she’d already had some of her work displayed around galleries in Oregon. Judging by the expensive clothes and advanced photographic equipment, Max could tell Victoria’s parents were more than wealthy. But that didn’t give her the right to act so entitled. She answered Mr. Jefferson’s questions with finesse and a bit of arrogance. Max couldn’t decide if it was good or bad.

Next, there were Taylor, Daniel, Stella, and Hayden. Max only remembered their first names. Perhaps because none seemed as intense as their predecessor.  

Mr. Jefferson eventually reached the last person on the list, Kate Marsh. The girl raised her hand, replied, “Here,” just like everyone else had done before her, and offered her professor a warm smile.

Max had already met Kate on the day she’d moved to the dorms. A kind-hearted and friendly person, who happened to be a devout Christian. It turned out she played violin, which gave the two girls some more common ground besides enjoying a good tea and their mutual love for the hilarious adventures of Hawt Dawg Man. Kate preferred drawing and designing her own comic strips more than photography, yet Max still found her pictures rather outstanding. Kate’s art focused on the ordinary—often sad—side of life, such as a doctor giving their patient bad news or a mother tending to her newborn baby.

But there was nothing more pure than photographing her adorable bunny, Alice. Kate was very creative with the scenarios; for instance, playing with proportions to the point where the bunny appeared much larger next to the tree far, far in the distance. Kate also seemed fond of the Automatic Autofocus mode, which allowed her to capture the tiniest of little, living creatures—something rather impossible to achieve with an instant camera. Max had to manage some other way. For the time being, she couldn’t afford anything beyond that Polaroid of hers. 

“Splendid,” Mr. Jefferson concluded, closing his laptop and getting up. “Now that I’ve officially met all of you, I’ll be delighted if you all pose for a group picture.”

_Oh?_

Max observed as Mr. Jefferson gingerly lifted up a large, fairly pricy camera in his hands. She instantly recognized the brand, considering she’d wished to own a Hasselblad since the moment she’d learned of its existence. It was _distant_ dream for sure, worth something around thirty grand, and it was going to take a while before she could actually purchase one herself, but she wasn’t going to let that obstacle be in the way of her motivation. The device was an art form in and of itself already.

“Don’t be shy, everyone, gather ‘round,” Mr. Jefferson coaxed, and walked over to the desk in the very middle, which wasn’t occupied by anyone. “Grab a chair, some of you, the rest will stand behind.”

Max stood up, took her chair, and approached the desk as instructed. She sat between Alyssa, the girl with the pink highlights, and a blonde girl named Taylor, with Kate right behind her, and the rest of the class eventually huddled up as well. Mr. Jefferson then lined up the camera, and snapped a couple of shots with a focused frown on his face.

“Great. Thank you all. You may return to your seats,” he said.

Mr. Jefferson then swiftly began his lecture. He was so smooth and intriguing from the get-go. Eloquent words poured out of him one after another, and if they weren’t sprinkled with an improvised, subtle joke here and there, Max would almost think he’d rehearsed it all beforehand. Certainly every aspiring professional should know the history of their craft, but not everyone possessed a gift to pass on that knowledge so easily. Mr. Jefferson was in his element. His presence was all-engulfing, so much so that even someone as easily distracted as Max hadn’t found herself spacing out yet.

She was taking notes of each and any important name, and would only glance at her professor once in a while, far too shy to establish eye contact for more than a couple of moments, which always resulted in a hot blush on her cheeks.

“…which is why I _devotedly_ stick by my rule of thumb,” Mr. Jefferson continued. “ _Always_ take the shot. And it doesn’t apply only to street or instant photography, by the way.” He gestured to Max and briefly locked eyes with her, most definitely flustering her expression further.

 _Stealth? Failed miserably_.

“All great art needs this constant push. It will not make itself on its own,” he went on with his opening rant. “Just as incessantly putting off writing a novel has never worked out in any author’s favor, nor has anyone ever become a songwriter without picking up the metaphorical quill. I suggest you live by this rule as well.”

Mr. Jefferson cruised around the desks, clearly making an effort to capture everyone’s interest equally. “And sometimes, you might need to make necessary sacrifices in order to achieve your truest form of expression,” he concluded, settling down on the desk in front of Max. She shifted in her seat, suddenly becoming hyperaware of her each movement and body language, as though she was being scrutinized. She dug her eyes into her notes, afraid to look him in the eyes, now that he was so close to her.

Mark caught the tiny beauty avert his gaze several times and blush each time their eyes did meet. He enjoyed eliciting such a reaction from young women, which played straight into his ego, although he would never admit it. Superficial beauty didn’t impress him much, but his own was definitely useful—as was his overwhelming charm, and he knew it very well.

It seemed Maxine spaced out for a little while, staring out the window with a dreamy smile. The seat he’d assumed really was ideal; he could keep his eye on her the entire and capture her attention whenever he wished. What a sweet torture it was going to be.

Without interrupting his speech, he continued, “We will also discuss documentary filmmakers of the olden days, because that ties directly to the types of photography I’d like you to learn about during this year.”

“Such as…Robert Frank?” Ms. Chase queried, simultaneously lifting her hand up, albeit without waiting for permission to speak.

“Well, he’s certainly not _as_ ancient, he’s still alive after all, but yes, for instance,” Mark responded. “Very good, uh…Ms. Chase, is it?”

Max regarded her colleague for a few moments. It seemed the blonde knew quite a lot already. She’d been dominating the majority of today’s lecture, interjecting far too many times, and possibly disrupting Mr. Jefferson’s train of thought. Max thought Victoria should consider herself lucky—he was being so polite despite her constant chiming in. Kate had said that most teachers at Blackwell didn’t carry the same patience and would have scolded Victoria by now.

“Yes, Mr. Jefferson.” She batted her eyelashes and presented an enticing smile. She then turned to the other blonde by her desk, flashing a triumphant, smug expression.

 _Maybe he’s flattered by the attention_.

Mark wasn’t quite _as_ flattered. Not when it was the time to listen instead of discuss. Besides, he hadn’t been able to shake off Ms. Chase’s presence ever since the orientation. He appreciated eager students, he was here to share his vast wisdom and passion for photography after all. However, sometimes overzealous students caused more trouble than slackers. Not that he’d ever let it show, but it annoyed him greatly. Alas, he had to push past that and march on.

He regained his composure as quickly as it was shattered. “We will discuss plenty of theorists, watch documentaries either here together or on your own time. You will also read a lot and write essays.” He anticipated the collective groan filling the classroom right now, it happened every year. “Yes, I’m afraid I won’t budge on that,” he stated with an amused smile. “There won’t be too many, though. I promise.”

Max put all of the requirements down in her notebook with a rising anxiety. Reading assignments, theory essays, documentaries to watch... So much knowledge to intake each day. And just for this one class. How in the world was she going to have time for all of this?

“However, theory is nothing without practice, so each Wednesday will always be devoted to lab work,” Mr. Jefferson added. “You’ll be asked to bring your photography equipment or, if it becomes necessary, use some of Blackwell’s finest cameras.” He gestured to the showcase adjoining the wall on his right, where all the heads and eyes followed. “They’re all mine, by the way,” he whispered, yet again flashing that smirk of his, and winked at Max.

And naturally, he elicited the same reaction from her once more.

_But at least I definitely didn’t imagine that wink. Right?_

“And all of your practical work should find itself inside a neatly kept portfolio,” Mr. Jefferson concluded. “I’ll check those regularly, so always be ready to present it. So, let’s strike while the iron is hot. For our next meeting, bring in a photograph that’ll show me who you are as artists. It can be anything, as long as it’s something you enjoy.”

 _Well, you did want to study photography to the fullest, Max. Here it is_.

Eventually saved by the bell, most of the students quickly dispersed, leaving only a few still present in the classroom.

Mark stood up from the desk and had one quick glance of the new girl in front of him. He’d love to take a peek into those beautiful, ocean blue eyes again, but it seemed she was too shy to meet his gaze right now. He thus strode over to his desk and sat down. Not wasting any time, Ms. Chase trotted over to meet him there. She proceeded with asking him a bunch of questions about his work, which he quite enjoyed, and fishing for compliments in return, which was a more demanding task.

Maintaining his overly polite façade, Mark just pretended to listened to her.

To her own surprise, Max was among the few students that stayed behind for the time being. Besides her and Victoria, there was also Kate, who happened to be Mr. Jefferson’s new class assistant. She tidied the classroom and collected whatever Mr. Jefferson required her to. She smiled at Max, got a key from the professor, and headed out.

Max glanced around. Albeit not too spacious, the classroom was very well-equipped on its own, with expensive cameras and literature on the subject of photography stockpiled in elegant showcases against the entire left wall. Some of Jefferson’s actual published work was displayed on the cork board at the back. And at the front—the short-haired blonde, ostentatiously sticking out her bum as she bent against Mr. Jefferson’s desk, clearly trying to garner the attractive professor’s attention, who seemed rather disinterested in whatever she had to say or her advances.

 _Of course he is. He’s our teacher. He has a reputation to uphold_.

By now, Mark had heard every possible cliché about photography spewed by Ms. Chase. Though she was clearly skilled, evident by her considerable portfolio and achievements, he didn’t feel all too impressed with her. She truly didn’t need to be as intense, and let her work speak for itself instead. But, willingly or not, Mark had to remain professional. He was going to be her guide should she need it, but the prospect of her constant yammering seemed dreadful. Dodging her flirtatious remarks drained him of patience even further.

He now allowed himself to observe Maxine from afar. Her curious expression complimented her simple, delicate beauty; skinny arms and legs comprising a frail frame. But more importantly in this moment, she seemed to be the only one who cared to peruse through the extensive supplies of literature as well as admire the showcased equipment. She had an aura of genuine passion around her. Perhaps she had the capacity to become a true, brilliant, one-of-a-kind artist, not just another amateur, or worse—a copycat.

Done with examining what the classroom had to offer, Max strode towards the exit.

“Excuse me, Ms. Chase, I need to talk to Ms. Caulfield over there,” Mark quickly dismissed Victoria, and at the very last possible moment, called out, “Maxine!”

Max turned back, her heart thudding in her ribcage, startled and displeased at the outburst of her full name. It didn’t help that it was said by Mr. Jefferson. She still despised it. And she had _specifically_ asked him not to say it. In the corner of her eye, she could see Victoria glower at her as she headed for the door.

“Pardon me…” Mark rose to his feet with his hands raised and a tiny smirk on his lips. There was a glare on Maxine’s gentle face, creating an amusing and endearing contrast. “I meant to say… _Max_ ,” he corrected. “Could you come over here, please?”

She hesitantly shot back towards him. At his side, she asked shyly, “Yes? Mr. Jefferson?”

“So, how do you find the classroom so far? Anything catch your eye?” he inquired.

“Oh, um…it’s a lot to go over, that’s for sure. I did recognize some names, though, so I’m glad I’m not completely green,” she replied with a coy smile.

“Oh, such as?”

“Cartier-Bresson’s _The Decisive Moment_ , which is rare. Annie Leibovitz, of course. And the amazing Eugene Smith, Avedon, Dali… all great masters,” she recounted with a spark in her eyes. It suited her.

“Indeed, they are. I’m pleased to see you actively taking an interest in the theorists, not just in the unquestionable pleasure of producing a photograph. You’ll do well here with _this_ attitude,” Mark praised. Maxine’s eyes widened with joy. He’d come to enjoy the sight of an astonished face on his students whenever he showed appreciation. It always seemed to encourage them further.

 _I sure hope I’ll do well here, Mr. Jefferson_ , Max thought.

For a short moment, she let herself admire Mr. Jefferson’s impeccable looks in greater detail. Whatever photographs had showed her beforehand, none of them did him justice. His hair was ruffled only so slightly that it almost seemed non-styled; the finely-groomed, hipster beard decorating his face complimented his mature features, and there was a pair of gorgeous, dark brown eyes gazing from behind the black frames of his glasses, which added depth to his stare. He and Max were separated by a twenty-year age gap, but he certainly appeared younger than that.

There was also this…distinct, pleasant aroma around him, which Max had caught a whiff of the moment she’d found herself at his desk. It spread each time he made a movement, but its intensity wasn’t intrusive for the nose. The scent of his cologne was…delicate and sweet, with some hints of rosewood and cardamom, as far as she was able to tell. Simply put, Mr. Jefferson was handsome as hell and smelled just as good as he looked.

“I just hope I didn’t bore you too much with my rant there, Max,” he added.

Max raised her eyebrows. “Bore me?”

“You didn’t say much during the lecture. I also had an impression that your notebook and whatever was hiding behind the window were more interesting,” he explained.

 _Oh, fuck. This isn’t good_.

“Sir, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you,” she murmured, shaking her head with a startled look in her eyes.

It seemed Mr. Jefferson enjoyed intimidating people. His eyes gave him away; their dark glow carried a smile he unsuccessfully attempted to choke back. “Oh, I am not insulted. Disappointed more like it,” he clarified.

_That’s not good either!_

“Care to explain why?” he pressed.

“But I _was_ listening, Mr. Jefferson.” Max quickly reached inside her bag and pulled out her notebook. She passed him the notes, and said, “Here’s the proof.”

Mr. Jefferson turned pages one by one, each filled entirely with pieces of his rant.

“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “It appears I was wrong. Do forgive me, Max,” he said with an apologetic tone, and handed her back the notebook. “May I ask why you didn’t participate in the class then?”

“I-I-I can’t explain it,” Max stammered. His pressed lips, crossed arms, and a slightly scrutinizing stare weren’t all too helpful. “I guess…it’s not easy for me to just…jump right in with an answer.”

_Hey, Mr. Jefferson, I have severe anxiety, everything makes me nervous as hell, especially you. How about that for an explanation?_

Mark wasn’t clueless. Of course he’d noticed how strained by anxiety this young girl was. In fact, it was a part of her charm. But if she wanted to succeed in the world of art, she was going to have to learn to become more confident.

“Well, alright,” he conceded. “I would simply advise you to do so more often despite your worries. This way, you’ll benefit from the class much more than just listening and making notes. And it won’t confuse your professor.” He smirked. “Cool?”

Maxine’s face lit up anew, mustering a smile. “Of course, Mr. Jefferson, cool. Sorry again,” she muttered.

“No need to apologize twice now, especially considering the fact that I accused you unfairly. I hope you can accept _my_ apology.”

“Yes, sir, of course. It-it’s okay.”

“I do hope so, Max.” He smiled in kind. “One more thing, though.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you have a rather vintage camera on you—in comparison with your colleagues, that is,” Mr. Jefferson said.

“Correct,” Max replied with a dose of confusion in her voice. Was that bad?

“Would you mind explaining your choice? It’s rather uncommon nowadays,” he requested.

“Yes, um… Well, I think it just suits my overall style. I love capturing quick, fleeting moments,” she stated, shifting a bit in her position. Answering to Mr. Jefferson cost her a great deal of stress.

Max felt eternally grateful to her past self for writing something similar in her journal upon being accepted to Blackwell. She’d suspected it might come in handy. She was serious about becoming a professional photographer. Surely that meant having to describe herself and her passion from time to time. And obviously, she wished to make a good impression on her idol, although not without hiccoughs, as it turned out.

“I love street and candid photography the most, and it’s quite useful to be able to look back at the results almost immediately,” she explained further. “It’s just there, immortalized in its pure form.”

Mark didn’t expect to hear such a self-assured answer from her, though it certainly captured his attention. The last few words in particular. Maxine seemed truly passionate about her preferred style.

“I suppose you are right,” he concurred. “I can see why an instant camera is so appealing. You don’t need a computer to print your work out. Perhaps I am just too stuck in my own ways to consider somebody else’s vision. And rarely anyone chooses such an outdated method when the technology has so much to offer, so you could say I was simply surprised by your choice.”

 _“Choice”…_ Max pressed her lips together and strained a smile. _It’s not like I can afford a fancy DSLR camera. And a cheap digital one would be worse than my Polaroid._

She wasn’t going to say anything of the sort out loud, though. “I don’t mind falling behind. At least in this matter.”

And she wasn’t lying. Many could say she was a hipster poser, surely Victoria and people of the same kind, but she actually enjoyed creating her art this way. It suited her spontaneous nature. It would be marvelous to own a more technologically advanced equipment. However, Max was good at making do. After all, “passion shall know no bounds,” as Mr. Jefferson’s own book said. Max had read _Capturing the Image_ countless times; she could practically quote it on the spot.

“So far, I cannot judge if you’re falling behind, Max,” Mr. Jefferson soothed. “I also hope that you won’t. Seeing as your preference is already unique, I’m more than thrilled to have a look at your photographs very soon.” He sent her a warm smile. “But maybe I can convince you to at least _try_ digital. We’ll see.”

_Wowsers, is he for real? No way Mark Jefferson of all people actually wants to look at my silly retro selfies._

“I, uh…I just hope I won’t disappoint you, sir,” Max only managed to blurt out. No need to give away too much insecurity.

“Maybe I am psychic,” Mr. Jefferson jested. “But I’m sensing that you won’t.”

Max couldn’t control her reaction right now and giggled at his humorous statement.

Mark’s heart twitched. Her laugher was so adorable, youthful, _innocent_. She possessed a charm both simplistic and engulfing. And yet her apparent shyness, as endearing as he found it, was definitely putting too big a strain on her to notice that herself. It was therefore up to him to make her grasp that. And polish the potential that she undoubtedly had.

And there it was _again_ —Mr. Jefferson seemed to linger on her, as though he admired the joy on her face. They locked eyes in silence, his brown eyes studying her blue ones. Though Max had promised herself she wouldn’t be crushing on Mark Jefferson once he became her teacher, it appeared the universe had other plans in store.

In one abrupt screech, the unpleasant ringing of the bell interrupted the quiet, serene moment.

_Crap, have we been talking for the entire lunch break?_

“Oh, forgive my intrusiveness, Max. It seems I’ve taken up half of your lunch break,” Mr. Jefferson said apologetically, pressing his hands together and shaking his head.

“Wait, only half?” Max quickly glanced at her wrist watch—merely 12:25pm.

“Yes. At Blackwell, the bell rings twice during lunch. Once in the middle.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged with an amused smile. “Don’t ask why. I wouldn’t know what to tell you.”

Max chuckled; her hand landing on her nape and rubbing the skin in response to the slight awkwardness. “Alright. I should probably go get something to eat before it’s too late.”

Mark offered her a warm smile. “Right, yes. Don’t let me stop you, Max. I should go have lunch as well. But, let me just say it was very pleasant to chat you up. Be seeing you.”

“Likewise, sir.” Maxine smiled at him in kind; her utterance colored by that adorable laughter. Oh, she was dazzling without any effort. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Max,” he replied softly.

Once Max exited the classroom and there was no way Mr. Jefferson could see her, she pinched herself, quite hard for that matter, in disbelief that he’d called her up. He hadn’t done so to anyone else. Strange.

But the thrill subdued the confusion. She recalled how intrigued Mr. Jefferson had seemed when they’d been conversing. He’d graced her with a soft smile and a soothing voice, which definitely added to his glamor a hundredfold. Max hadn’t intended to take a mental photograph of him, and yet the image became instilled in her mind now. She was glad she’d kept her cool, as difficult as it was. Perhaps with more time, she could grow used to Mr. Jefferson’s presence and chatting him up wouldn’t cause her so much agitation.

Either way, it seemed Max had finally found herself where she belonged—with a teacher who was keen on passing on the knowledge he possessed, and providing support to even an amateur like her, and that realization filled her heart with joy.

 

 

Burning the midnight oil as usual and hiding away in his home office, Mark was examining the photograph of his new class. Sixteen pairs of eyes stared directly into his lens. Each face clearly visible and presented in its most neutral state. Some expressions were more confident than others, some even appeared melancholic. But none was like Maxine’s, the coy and mysterious new girl. His sight involuntarily followed her first as he laid eyes upon the picture.

Actually, her name was not _Maxine_ , he remembered.

“Max. Never Maxine,” she’d said, her voice so quiet and with a great dose of trembling. A sneer had come from the short-haired blonde’s mouth, Mark had heard it loud and clear, but he hadn’t cared enough to give it attention. In that moment, Maxine had occupied all of his focus. As hesitant as she might’ve been, she’d found it in herself to be assertive and conquer her shyness. She’d made _him_ say her name the way _she_ wanted to be called.

“What a fascinating young woman you are, Maxine…” Mark murmured to himself with a dreamy smile.

Such a shame, though, he deduced after a while. “Maxine” meant “the greatest.” Why shy away from such a bold-sounding name? It was _beautiful_.

Unrestrained, Mark was free to carefully study her serene expression, her apparent shyness actually adding to her allure. Her wide eyes were encircled by long, dense eyelashes, just a hint of sharpening eyeliner on the upper lids. A light smile on her fair rosy lips rendered her expression soft. His lens had even captured the faint constellation of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Mark memorized every tiny detail of her gentle face. The mental picture he’d taken before matched perfectly with this one. No manipulation needed. She was gorgeous all on her own.

He cropped her entire silhouette and separated her from everyone else. A few more touches here and there, and the photograph was ready to be printed out.

Gulping down the last of his whiskey, he once again checked his phone. Still no answer from Nathan. Wherever the hell he was, was unimportant now. Mark would just like to make sure the kid was fine. However, considering the fact that his usual “partner in crime” had been quite off since that one unfortunate April day, no wonder he behaved in a rather unpredictable way. And if Sean had recently verbally abused him again, there were even more layers to the kid’s trauma.

Mark had tried just about anything to help the boy function somewhat properly, as much as his usual state allowed, but without much luck. Nathan clearly needed more space. And a better father. Maybe getting back to Nathan’s preferred style of art was going to be the solution. After all, Mark desired to continue his own vision, and required Nathan’s assistance to get back to it in full capacity.

Regardless of all the troubling thoughts, there was one that countered and trumped all of them right now.

Maxine. Oh, the sweet, innocent Maxine…

Mark once again sank his sight into the photograph before him and gazed at it in admiration for several uninterrupted moments; smiling to himself as his fingertips traced a path along the curve of her face.

. . .

 _She’ll do wonderfully in the Dark Room_.

 

 


	2. There is a Light That Never Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> — The Smiths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for such a warm response to the first chapter! Your lovely reviews and kudos are very much appreciated <3 
> 
> Just a lil heads-up: this little journal entry of Max's is of course taken from the game, with just small alterations of my own. I figured it might be a nice addition once in a while :)

_ we are all like astronauts  _

_ discovery, infinity  _

_ take my empty body  _

_ and discover me, infinity _

— MERRICK

* * *

 

_September 3, 2013_

_Blackwell sucks ass! I told myself not to whine so soon, but damn... The day started like Christmas morning. I barely had any dreams because I was so pumped to start my first official day of my new life. Like a dork I couldn't figure out what to wear, so I chose what was on the floor. Which ended up forever featured on the pic Jefferson took of us. Kill me now._

_I'm no good with names and faces right away, but I picked up some names like StellaBrookeTaylorAlyssa..._

_And how could I forget Victoria Chase? Rich, stylish, entitled. I could feel INSTANT JUDGMENT when she looked at my raggedy ass clothes. As if I'm at Blackwell to strike fashion poses... Maybe I'm being extra crispy sensitive, but I think Victoria wants life here to be like her own reality show. Ugh..._

_So that wasn't fun along with my general social unease... I thought it would be easier being back in Arcadia Bay, but nope. Call the waaahmbulance! I don't want this day to end all "Woe Is Max". It was incredible to walk across the green campus in the morning mist. I love the stone steps and brick walls of Blackwell. Everything is a picture waiting to be taken..._

_Speaking of, at least one great thing did happen today: Mr. Jefferson's photography class.  
_ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

 _He chatted me up afterwards (!!!), tho he was a bit harsh. I seriously gotta stop spacing out. But like, am I fucking dreaming?_ _Sigh... He’s so goddamn gorgeous I CAN’T BREATHE._

_There's more to tell but journal, forgive me, I'm truly wiped out._

_. . ._

 

**_Wednesday, September 4, 2013_ **

As far as Max was able to recall, yesterday had been a good day solely due to Mr. Jefferson, his photography class, and the remaining half of lunch time, the latter of which she’d spent with Kate. Beyond that, there were quite a few mean faces, demanding teachers, and a plethora of anxiety. Max tried putting up a brave face, even to her reflection in the mirror, but being on her own for the first time in her life was quickly proving itself to be much more difficult than anticipated.

Keeping her dorm room clean—or at least _relatively_ clean—was also going to be a challenge. She was never the one to be tidy in the first place, but without her mother constantly reminding her to tend to it, Max only spiraled further down. She still “hadn’t had the time” to unpack most of her personal items, leaving a heap of boxes in the north-west corner of the room. To make it worse, the heap was accompanied by the newly-made mess: pieces of clothing, textbooks, notebooks, loose sheets of paper, pens, drawing pencils, plastic plates, cups and cutlery all scattered about in various places.

Lying in bed now, Max gave this chaotic composition a disapproving look.

_You seriously need to get organized, Max…_

Perhaps Max’s inherent disorderliness was why her mother had left a small gift inside one of the boxes. It hadn’t exactly _surprised_ Max to find something like that. However, it was equally as embarrassing—Vanessa had equipped her daughter with a packet of contraceptive pills _and_ condoms, and left a small note that said, “Just be safe. XO.”

_Great. Thanks, mom. I totally don’t feel like a helpless, little kid now. **As if** I’m just gonna start having sex all of a sudden…_

Max wasn’t ready for that step yet, not at all. And even if she was, it wasn’t as though there was a long line of boys—or girls—wanting to be with her _like that_. Once the initial annoyance had withered away, though, she had to admit that it was, in fact, very thoughtful of her mother. Vanessa worried plenty, which was entirely normal for a parent, especially for one whose only child was living on her own for the first time.

_Ugh, I at least hope dad wasn’t in on it, too._

Although Ryan was the more “chill” Caulfield parent, it just seemed odd to Max to confide in him about sex and relationships. Maybe because deep down, Ryan was still a protective father despite letting loose more often than his wife. In a way, he would always view Max as his little girl, who should never, ever fully grow up, and want to shield her from anything bad. Max preferred having fun with her dad instead of discussing issues anyway, so the two had frequently addended hockey games while still in Seattle. She already missed spending those precious moments together.

 _We’ll see each other soon, pop_.

But, that aside, there was another, slightly more urgent issue—the photography assignment for Mr. Jefferson’s class. Max had perused through her barely-a-portfolio in search of at least one suitable picture, but it had all been in vain so far. She had no clue what _best_ represented her as an artist. Nothing seemed like a good candidate—not her “selfies”, as creative as they might be, and neither did her many shots of animals and landscapes, nor any portraits. And there was no guarantee Mr. Jefferson would be impressed with _any_ photograph she might present him with.

_Well, he definitely won’t be impressed if you come to class emptyhanded. So think, dummy!_

Resigned, she got out of bed with a loud groan, and pressed the _play_ button on the stereo. The last song she’d listened to in the evening now resurfaced mid-lyric, accompanied by a gentle sway of a classical guitar.

 _♪_ _We’ll cast some light and you’ll be alright…_

Max could always rely on music to fuel her inspiration; an idea sparked inside her mind in an instant.

She grabbed her Polaroid, approached the window, and pulled it wide open to prevent the frame from possibly casting any interfering shadows. She then raised the camera in her hands, lined up the shot, and took a selfie.

For a few seconds, she examined the freshly-printed photograph in her hands, and shrugged.

 _Better than nothing, I guess_.

She stuffed the picture in between the pages of her journal, and packed both into her bag, which she’d bought specifically to have something new at Blackwell. She’d decorated its exterior with a few cute, sewn-on patches as well as those tiny enamel pins, and was very pleased with the result. It was now a proper, hipster bag.

With that task finally out of her mind, and one quick shower later, she finally enrobed daytime clothes—a pair of navy blue jeans, a simple, lavender tee with a black inscription “MAD MAX” knitted seamlessly into the fabric, which was a gift from her friend from Seattle; and a soft, warm, grey hoodie. To finish off her hipster look, she rolled up the pantlegs of her jeans.

She soon headed out the dorm in search of breakfast, preferably in the little café down the street that Kate had recommended for its incredible muffins; mindful to also pack her Polaroid along.

 ** _Always_** _take the shot_.

The phrase was no stranger to Max. Seeing as it was Mr. Jefferson’s rule of thumb, it was also contained within the many passages of his book. Thus, he certainly didn’t need to push _Max_ , out of all his students, in that direction. She’d always viewed the world around her through her little lens. Her camera was an extension of her eye. She took pictures on the spur of the moment, sometimes causing much ado if the subject didn’t appreciate being photographed without consent. Max apologized and walked on, with just _a hint_ of guilt lingering. The image was already hers anyway.

{♪ “Crosses” – José González}

_♪ Disturbing silence darkens your sight…_

A stream of black coffee flowed down from the espresso machine into a black cup. It swirled as it mixed with a dose of milk, turning brown and soft. A large hand then grasped by the lug and picked it up.

Mark went over to the living room and through the sliding door that led outside. Cool, morning air caressed the skin on his face, and a light wind blew through his hair. Drawing a breath, he felt relief and clarity of mind for but a moment. The view in front of him was _magnificent_ —the teal Pacific spreading in each direction, infinite and timeless. Pure art. And then, rays of orange sunrise came from behind his back, reflecting in the wavy surface of the ocean. It wasn’t the ideal mixture of colors, in his opinion, but he decided not to dwell on such an insignificant detail.

The hot beverage burned pleasantly against Mark’s throat as he took the first sip. A few more, and he could already sense the effects of caffeine arising and further rousing his mind. Mornings were always so serene and peaceful. No matter what might happen later in the day, they were his own perfect, little pieces of time. Resting against the wooden railing of the terrace and consuming coffee right now, he enjoyed these few moments of tranquil solitude.

 _♪ We’ll cast some light and you’ll be alright…for now_.

The calm while eventually passed, forcing Mark to reenter the living room and slide back the door behind.

There weren’t many colors there besides the light rosewood floor and furniture, matte beige walls, and black leather upholstering. In front of him—several of his most prominent black-and-white photographs were hanging on the wall, whose right end led to the hallway through a wide arch, and left end to a different section of the house through another arch.

To his left, over a wide, beige carpet, there was the entertainment section of the room: a large HDTV television, a comfortable sofa and two accompanying armchairs, a modern record player with its own sound system, and a black grand piano. His favorite novels and essential literature on the subject of photography, plenty of vinyl records, and his not-as-extensive film collection were all stockpiled in the bookcases which encircled the white marble fireplace in the middle of that wall.

To his right, by the entrance to the kitchen, stood a medium-sized, glass table crowned with a gemmed bowl filled with fresh fruit, and six chairs, all of which fitted into the rosewood and black leather aesthetic of the room, as well as some potted plants to finish off. This side was far brighter due to the tall windows, through which one could always admire the sunset.

Mark glanced around the almost utopian orderliness and smiled smugly. He quite enjoyed simplicity, thus it pleased him to be the mastermind behind the concept of this minimalistic yet elegant interior. In fact, his whole two-story house upheld the same standard. Being a perfectionist, Mark couldn’t imagine living any other way. Even the Dark Room was put under the same scrutiny, and it always annoyed him to no end whenever Nathan didn’t follow the cleanliness principle they’d both agreed upon.

During the long, nearly scorching hot summer months, he’d been hiding away in the studio; its cool atmosphere subdued his low tolerance to heat. He’d had no choice but to occupy his otherwise obsessive mind; incessantly reviewing all of his work, reevaluating its worth and meaning, as well as regularly cleaning the place out of sheer aggravation, but…he’d eventually grown tired of waiting. He still _yearned_ to indulge in his hobby, preferably as soon as possible, and meeting Maxine seemed like a godsend. And if only Nathan rejoined him in the endeavor, everything would go back to normal.

 _Nothing a little carrot at the end of a stick can’t fix_.

Pulling Mark out of his thoughts, his ears suddenly caught onto a light purr emerging from behind his back. That same _something_ was also scraping against the wooden panels of the floor as it was slowly approaching Mark. His eyes met the green, somber gaze of the creature. It was entirely black, except for the white-as-snow half of its face and the corresponding ear, fuzzy, and it _meowed_.

“Hey,” Mark softly greeted the furball as it rubbed itself against his ankles. “Your nail clipping is way overdue, bud.”

The cat hissed, bristled, and narrowed its eyes as though to object.

“I am _sorry_ ,” Mark chuckled defensively. “But you’re ruining my floors. They were expensive, you know.” He disapprovingly frowned at the cat. “Now…I bet you’re hungry.”

The cat immediately changed its demeanor into a much friendlier one, fawning over its owner, and attempted to climb up his leg. Mark crouched down and ruffled the soft fur on its back.

“You are one mercenary bastard, you know that? No true feelings for me, just pure interest.” Mark shook his head with an amused smile, and sighed. “Come on then.”

Chiaroscuro, which was the name of Mark’s furry roommate, was a stray he’d found not long after moving in. Mark wasn’t too fond of animals overall, but the cat’s black-and-white features had captured his attention, and it’d received its goofy name precisely for that reason. Not every day does one come across such an exceptionally-looking pet, thus Mark found it fitting to snatch that rare gem before anyone else could.

It also wasn’t unhelpful that the cat was a great listener, never once objecting with a ridiculous opinion of its own. It was a bit stubborn, though, always insisting on having its way through non-verbal communication, similarly to its human master. Neither of the two wanted to submit to the other, but one always had to win eventually. The cat, more of than that not.

Mark headed to the kitchen, Chiaroscuro eagerly following behind. He squatted and placed a steel bowl filled with cat food on the white kitchen tiles. He then petted the cat one last time as it began its consumption, and glanced up at the clock—it was time to leave.

One thorough mouthwash later, he slipped on a black jacket over the white shirt he was already wearing, and readjusted his dark jeans, rolling up the edge of the pantlegs. He tied tighter the shoelaces, grabbed his bag and car keys, and pocketed a spare syringe with an optimal dosage of a sedative.

 _Just in case_.

Having taken care of the entire routine, he locked the house behind, and got inside his grey sedan.

 

Max strode giddily down the street, getting closer to the café; earbuds plugged in and bursting with a positive melody, as though there were no worries clouding her mind—how very different from the previous day. The sun was shining ever more intensely than when she’d taken that selfie earlier, and was now pleasantly burning on her face and filtering through the yellowing maple treetops. As much as Seattle was a great city for artists, no one could deny Arcadia Bay its naturalistic beauty. Human presence hadn’t interfered with it thus far, although Max had heard the locals sneer about the Prescotts treating the land as though it was “their own goddamn yard,” which, in a way, it was.

The wealthy family currently funded most of the town’s riches, the Blackwell Academy included. However, as prosperous as their businesses were, there was quite a lot of damage being made at the expense of certain residents. Arcadia Bay used to be a fisherman’s heaven, but nowadays the rumor had it that it was no longer the case because of the Prescott family’s doings. They took what they wanted with no regard for anybody else, and Max couldn’t find it in herself to respect people of such kind.

Fortunately, this one café was still autonomous, and it showed. It had its own heart, and one could fall in love with it by just taking one glance at the exterior. Although the building was hugged by other two adjoining ones, the front of the joint was styled to look like a cottage with pale blue, wooden panels on the wall, an actual porch, and even a couple of rocking chairs to sit on and enjoy one’s meal.

Upon entering, Max heard a muffled yet familiar voice call out behind her.

“Hello, Max,” Mr. Jefferson greeted her enthusiastically. She turned back to face him, momentarily caught off guard. She hurriedly took out the earbuds and stuffed them in her hoodie pocket. “This time I got your name right.”

“Oh…hi, Mr. Jefferson,” she replied politely. “What, uh… what brings you in here?”

“ _Best_ bagel I know,” Mr. Jefferson responded in a similar manner, flavoring it with a warm smile. “How are you doing this morning, Max?”

“Ah, quite alright, I guess,” Max said as they both slowly approached the counter, many a delicious snack showcased behind the glass. “H-how about you, sir?”

“So, so. I do hope to see some promising new photographs today, though.” He looked at her tellingly.

Max attempted to find an appropriate, evasive retort. “I can’t promise anything, Mr. Jefferson.”

He bobbed his head and frowned slightly. “Hm.”

“Good morning! What can I get you?” the barista inquired, prompting Max to shift her focus onto her.

“Good morning. I’d like, um…a medium latte and, uh…a carrot muffin, please,” Max murmured her order. As she reached inside her bag, though, she had a horrifying realization.

_Oh, no, no, no… Fuck!_

She offered the barista a terrified look, which Mr. Jefferson certainly noticed as well.

“What’s the matter, Max?” he asked with concern in his voice.

 _This is so embarrassing_.

“I forgot my wallet. I can’t believe it,” Max mumbled, feeling her cheeks catch fire. How difficult could it have been to check if she’d packed everything _before_ leaving?

“Oh, that’s okay,” Mr. Jefferson soothed. “Whatever you want is on me then.”

Her eyes shot back to him with disbelief.  “Wh– Are you _cereal?_ ” she blurted out her silly, little catchphrase without thinking.

 _Great. Yes, do show Mr. Jefferson how big of a dork you are_.

Mark’s expression turned to pure amusement. He truly struggled to choke back his laughter. Maxine’s entire demeanor was _so sincere_. While he always measured his words, she certainly didn’t. His reaction led her cheeks to flush even more, which in turn caused his pupils to dilate. He always enjoyed witnessing that very moment.

“Yes, I am ‘cereal,’” he echoed with a grin, widening his eyes as the pronounced the last, newly-acquired word to tease her. “Go on, don’t keep the lady waiting,” he rushed her, gesturing his head towards the awaiting barista.

_Well, if he insists…_

“Just the latte and muffin, thank you,” Max said and tightly embraced herself to combat the embarrassment that now flooded every fiber of her being.

“And for you, sir?” the barista inquired again.

“A large veggie bagel, please,” Mr. Jefferson added. He then paid for the order, and nudged Max on the shoulder. “Max, what would you say to me joining you for breakfast?”

Max gaped. _Is he fucking serious?_ It seemed Mr. Jefferson nodded slightly in response to her shock.

“Y-yes, I-I would love that actually,” she breathed, stammering a bit as Mr. Jefferson’s smile widened.

 _Great, dummy. Now he **knows** you’re a fan_.

“Splendid. Why don’t you sit by that window over there–” He gestured to the back of the café. Max’s eyes followed his hand, and then shifted back to him as he continued, “–and I’ll be back soon with our order, alright?”

“Sh-sure, Mr. Jefferson,” she replied meekly, although it was all clearly colored by excitement and joy.

Max headed where Mr. Jefferson had asked, and sat down on the chair facing the checkout counter, which  allowed her to keep an eye on him. She felt so tense, though, shaking and trembling in her seat. Seeing Mr. Jefferson in class and talking to him was nerve-wracking all on its own, but having an actual breakfast inches away from him— _that_ seemed like an odd fuse of tension and daydream.  

_How the hell am I going to successfully put anything in my stomach with him around?_

Mark, on the other hand, felt quite delighted with the turn of events. Without any prior planning, Maxine fell into his hands. He could occupy all of her attention for several uninterrupted moments, and find out more about her passion for photography. Maybe steal a gaze or two as well.

 _Perfect_.

He then sauntered over to their table and locked eyes with her for a moment as he sat down vis-à-vis from her, thereby setting the order on the table, and undid the only clasped button of his jacket. Distributing the ordered items among the two of them, he examined her expression. The shy smile, dodging eyes and fingers drilling into the surface of the table definitely meant Maxine was anxious.

“Here you go, Max.” He placed the coffee and the muffin in front of her. “Do enjoy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jefferson,” she murmured with a slightly abashed grimace. “You really shouldn’t have, though.”

“Max, it was not a problem in the slightest. Sometimes you do have to let a man be a gentleman,” he retorted with a smirk, and winked at her. That lovely blush creeped up her cheeks yet again.

“Alright,” Max said quietly and dipped her eyes in the muffin. She ripped off a piece and stuffed it into her mouth.

_Why do I always have to make the biggest dork out of myself?_

Catching a whiff of Mr. Jefferson’s cologne again, the same one as yesterday, and getting attacked by butterflies in her stomach didn’t help to fight the embarrassment either.

“So,” Mr. Jefferson forced her to look up at him again. “Without spoiling the surprise, would you mind sharing the story of how your photo came to being?”

Max gulped down the food in her mouth. _Alright, Max. Last chance to be cool_.

“I, uh…I couldn’t think of the idea for the longest time, but then I put some music on, and it just came to me. So, I just… _took the shot_ ,” she explained, and sent Mr. Jefferson a coy smile. “Whether or not it’ll be a good surprise, is yet to be seen, sir.”

Certainly not every single shot a photographer takes is spectacular, but Mark applauded that, at the very least, Maxine took his advice into consideration. “I see. What do _you_ think of it, though? Honestly,” he coaxed. He wished to bring out at least an ounce of confidence and self-appreciation in her. So often the lack thereof contributed to failure.

“Hm. I would say… It may not be high art or anything extraordinary, but I like the type of photographs I take. And this one plays into the style I told you about, sir,” Maxine stated.

“Spontaneous, I assume.” Mark narrowed his eyes along with the inquiry, and Maxine nodded. “Well, I admit, it is far from my own vision; I prefer to stage the scenery and pose my subjects, but I am really looking forward to seeing what you’ve produced,” he informed with a warm smile. His praise must’ve been quite intimidating to her; she seemed short of words. Again, she simply bobbed her head in acknowledgement of his words. “So, are you _happy_ with the results?” he pressed.

Max then finally took a sip of her coffee. How does one say “yes” without sounding arrogant?

She set the coffee cup back down on the table, and took a deep breath. “Personally? Yes. I’m rather fond of it, all things considered. I can only hope you’ll think so as well, Mr. Jefferson,” she muttered, smiling shyly. Confident statements really did feel like a foreign language in her mouth, but she couldn’t put her finger on her as to _why_ that was.

Mr. Jefferson nodded with a light smile. “I hope so, too. Now… I would love to know why exactly you love street and candid photography. Who or what inspired you?” he asked, and took a bite of his breakfast, clearly giving the stage to her.

“Well, uh…the most obvious one would be Cartier-Bresson,” Max started, praying that Mr. Jefferson wouldn’t assume she was about to cite clichés. “He’s definitely a huge inspiration of mine. It just _spoke_ to me how he would always shoot only with one lens, a 50mm, when he was shooting for himself.”

“Why did that particular thing speak to you?”

“I mean, I also only have just one camera on me all the time, so it was already something I was doing, and it made me feel better about not owning more equipment. Yet,” she explained. “I’m sure I will, at some point, but for now, just as he once did, I use only one extension of my eye.”

Mr. Jefferson nodded approvingly. “That’s a nice sentiment there, Max. Any other advice of Cartier-Bresson’s you’ve taken to heart?”

“Hm. He also said not to be obtrusive, which, of course, is very hard in street photography. I try my best, but it doesn’t always work out. Not sure if this one’s true or not, but I think I read somewhere once that he would often disguise his Leica with black tape or a handkerchief, so most of his subjects never knew they were being photographed.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Mr. Jefferson chirped in with a wide smile. Maybe he was just being polite, because it hardly seemed believable to Max that it was the first time Mr. Jefferson had ever heard of such practices, but she appreciated having such a pleasant interlocutor. It appeared Mr. Jefferson was treating her seriously despite undoubtedly holding a much more vast knowledge than her.

“Yeah, I think so too. His pictures don’t just _seem_ candid; they truly _are_ candid. I love that,” she continued, while Mr. Jefferson kept nodding. He wasn’t responding with words due to the mouthful of bagel he was chewing on, but it seemed he was no less engaged in what she had to say. “He also focused on geometry. He was so stunning at it; it was always applied so poetically in his photos. I’m still working on this one myself, though. But I _am_ good at being patient. I haven’t been back in Arcadia Bay for long, but I’ve taken a walk around a few times, and there’s always something to shoot if you’re willing to wait a little bit.”

Mark found himself enjoying Maxine’s wistful remarks. There she was—deep down, Maxine clearly didn’t think _as_ little of herself as she initially led on. It was definitely easier to hide inside a thick carapace and shield oneself from everything; Mark knew that. He _was_ that. However, although it wasn’t much yet, Maxine only needed but a nudge in the right direction, and all that passion and enjoyment of her own photography began pouring out in tiny rivulets. In time, perhaps it would turn into a brook, or a stream, and eventually form something greater. And Mark had all the time in the world to peel those layers off her.

With that, he was finished with his breakfast, and discreetly cleaned himself up with a paper napkin he fetched from a stand on their table. “I wholeheartedly agree, Max,” he said. “And did I catch it right—you’re _back_ in Arcadia Bay?”

“Oh, yes. I was born here,” she affirmed. “Like you, sir.”

“Someone’s been stalking my Wiki page, I see,” Mark teased, cocking an eyebrow. Maxine certainly wasn’t the first starstruck student of his, but she seemed much less intrusive in comparison with the rest. And all of her reactions were so endearingly shy, thus he couldn’t help himself but torment her just _a little bit_.

She giggled and hid her face inside her palms. “I’m sorry, yeah. But there’s so little on it that it barely counts.”

“It’s okay, Max,” Mark soothed, chuckling at her adorable demeanor. “Please continue.”

“Yes. So, I was born here, but then I moved to Seattle about five years ago. And now I’m back to study at Blackwell.”

“Oh, Seattle is definitely a great city for artists. You must’ve had quite a great time there.”

“I did. I mean, I visited as many art galleries and museums as I could before coming here, such as Columbia City or G. Gibson. Oh, and my beloved Rare Medium, or, as I call it, _Polaroid Heaven_.”

Max had once thought the love for instant photography would never return in such a widespread capacity, but she was utterly thankful to Cory Verellen for founding that wonderful place. She recalled her many visits with joy, having acquired a much broader knowledge about her preferred photographic equipment.

“I must say, Max, you seem to have a great taste,” Mr. Jefferson praised. “I’ve never been to Rare Medium, but perhaps since it’s your favorite place, you could show me around one day.”

 _Oh. My. God. He can’t be serious_.

“Oh, uh…of course, sir. I’d love to.”

“I’m glad. For now, though, we should probably head to class,” he noted, having a quick glance at his wrist watch and prompting Max to do the same.

“Oh, yes. We should,” she affirmed. “Thank you again for the breakfast, Mr. Jefferson.”

But he simply waved it off with that same, warm smile. “Don’t mention it. It was _my_ pleasure, Max.”

 

Max truly couldn’t believe her luck. Not only had she had the opportunity to have a one-on-one with Mark Jefferson on her _first day_ , but it’d happened again with that shared breakfast, followed by an equally chatty walk to Blackwell. Upon arriving, she pinched herself one last time, but just as yesterday, it _wasn’t_ a dream. Despite all that social anxiety boiling inside of her with each step, she’d found it in herself to converse with Jefferson casually as though he wasn’t a famous, handsome and intimidating individual. She was even able to leave her worries behind for the duration of it all, and it’d felt like a huge weight off her shoulders.

 _I could actually get used to it_.

The first two classes dragged on _sluggishly_ in comparison. In fact, time seemed to almost move backwards, and if it hadn’t been for her newly-made friend, Warren Graham, who kept lightly poking her on the arm during Algebra, Max would all but have fallen asleep there on the spot. Warren was also tremendously helpful with science and math in general; it appeared he truly knew a ton. But more astonishing was the fact that he, a self-proclaimed science geek, enumerated some photography names, ones that Max hadn’t actually heard before. In need of a study partner and more friends, she invited him to lunch with Kate.

Just as Max had hoped, the three found a mutual language. Kate was a little less shy than Max, but in her presence, Max was able to open up much sooner, and anxiety wasn’t eating her up. Warren was even more laid-back, which allowed for a really amicable atmosphere. Perhaps this was going to be Max’s new, little clique here. She definitely didn’t want to join the popular kids, such as Victoria Chase or her male copy, Nathan Prescott. The two seemed awful enough on their own, but together, they were _insufferable_.

By the end of lunch, Max swung by her room to grab her wallet in order to pay Mr. Jefferson back for the breakfast. Taught by experience, she checked one last time if she had her assignment with her, and then headed straight to Photography Lab.

She was still a bit concerned what Mr. Jefferson might think of receiving a “selfie”; after all, he’d expressed a lot of praise, and it could all get shattered with this one disappointment. But, during the class, he seemed to be in quite a good mood; he kept joking way more than yesterday, and initiated more interactions and opportunities for a discussion. Maybe he wasn’t going to be so tough on his students after all.

“Alright. Who can give me the name of the oldest _surviving_ camera photograph?” Mr. Jefferson queried and looked around the classroom, turning even towards the students seated behind him.

Victoria’s hand shot upwards, and she was almost going to give him an answer, but he raised his hand to stop her. “Ms. Chase, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ve been active this entire lab. Let’s give the others a chance as well, shall we?” The blonde let out a tiny “ugh” with a baffled expression, and fell back into the backrest with a thud, clearly upset.

 _Okay, Max, you know this one_.

Max raised her hand, looking up at Mr. Jefferson in anticipation.

The professor smirked for but a second. “Yes, Max?”

“It’s _View from the Window at Le Gras_ , sir,” she answered, albeit a bit quietly.

Mr. Jefferson appeared to be pleased. “Indeed. What do we call that technique, Max?”

“Uh…heliography?”

“Splendid. And finally—who took that image?”

“Nicéphore Niépce,” Victoria quickly barged in just as Max was about to respond. “You’re welcome, _Maxine_ , that would’ve been a mouthful for you,” she added with a distinct contempt in her voice.

Max glared at her colleague with reproach, but didn’t say anything. It was true that Victoria possessed an impeccable French accent, something that Max couldn’t match, but all this childish scramble was uncalled for.

_Why the fuck does Victoria have to be so mean?_

Mr. Jefferson furrowed his eyebrows and pressed his lips into a straight line. He didn’t seem impressed in the slightest. Irked, actually. “Ms. Chase, please keep personal remarks to yourself,” he simply said, and continued the disquisition in attempt to coax more students into participating, although with a varying success.

Towards the end of the class, he collected the assignments, once again reminding everyone to always keep on reading a few chapters in advance. The class hurriedly disbanded for the day, perhaps in fear of facing Mr. Jefferson’s response to their photographs. 

Sitting at his desk and shuffling the pictures in his hands, suddenly there emerged a familiar, delicate face— _Maxine_. She’d presented him with a self-portrait, or as all the pesky kids called it, a “selfie.”

Max observed Mr. Jefferson’s reaction from afar. Taken aback, he took a shallow, quiet gasp. His gaze then shifted towards her, and the two locked eyes.

“Max? Could you come over here, please?”

 _Idiot! You really shouldn’t have given him a selfie_.

She anxiously strode over to the desk. “Yes, Mr. Jefferson?”

“Do you have another class now?”

“Yes, sir. I’m done at 4.”

“Great. I’d like you to come by my office when you’re done. We need to discuss your photo submission,” Mr. Jefferson announced stoically. It was difficult to deduce whether he was impressed or displeased, or somewhere in between.

_Uh-oh…_

“Do you know where that is?” he queried.

“I do, Mr. Jefferson. I’ll come by after class.”

“Splendid. See you then.”

 

Max tried her best to focus and enjoy Life Drawing which followed, but the worries didn’t want to leave her alone, as much as she begged them to.

Without much of a choice, though, she knocked on Mr. Jefferson’s office door at 4:03pm.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Also with no response.

On the verge of knocking for the third time, she finally heard Mr. Jefferson’s voice echo behind her. “Hello again, Max,” he said enthusiastically, striding towards her. He unlocked the door and pushed it open for her. “It appears I am late, do forgive me. Please come in.”

“S’okay,” Max mumbled.

She entered the office with a bit of jitters tingling beneath the skin, and heard Mr. Jefferson follow her in and close the door behind. Her eyes curiously explored the modern-looking, spacious interior. According to the map of the academy, Mr. Jefferson’s office was even bigger than Principal Well’s. Besides the prestige itself, there was clearly a reason for it. Just as in the Art classroom, there were several bookcases with literature and even more cameras stocked in chic showcases. Mr. Jefferson also had a sofa and a countertop with a small coffeemaker.

 _No wonder. The coffee at the cafeteria tastes like swamp water_.

“Mr. Jefferson, your office is so _nice_ ,” Max praised, offering him a light smile, her hands clasped together.

“Thank you, Max. Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs by the desk.

The two sat down, Mr. Jefferson vis-à-vis from her just like during the breakfast. He then slipped out her photo submission. Observing her, he placed it on the surface and passed it towards her.

“So, _this_ is your style,” he deduced, his tone as neutral as humanly possible, delicately tapping his index finger on the photograph. Next, he took his hand away and—perhaps only in Max’s own estimation—gazed at her with scrutiny behind his dark brown eyes.

“Yes. But not _just_ this,” Max rushed in with explanations, unmistakably sensing her anxiety rise. “Ah-also other people, animals, nature, l-landscapes. Depending on my mood, really.”

 _Stop fucking stammering, dummy. Chill_.

“I see. But the assignment was to show me what _best_ represented your style,” Mr. Jefferson clarified.

“I’m sorry, sir, I–I probably shouldn’t have submitted a selfie, I jus–”

“Oh, don’t worry, Max,” Mr. Jefferson soothed, offering her a warm smile. He changed his demeanor from strict to hip and loose in a blink of an eye, befuddling Max to the point of practically starting to cry from stress. “There’s nothing wrong with being versatile. And I actually find this photograph very good.”

She gaped and gawked simultaneously. “You _do?_  ”

“Yes. As you know, self-portraiture is as valid as any other style of photography. Perhaps I would only refrain from using the term _selfie_.”

“I’m so relieved,” Max breathed. “And I promise, I won’t use that word.”

“Oh, you still can,” Mr. Jefferson chuckled lightly. “But this photograph _isn’t_ a selfie. Not in the same sense. Do you understand?”

“I think so…” Max first narrowed her eyes, attempting to show as little fluster as possible, and then quickly offered the _right_ response. The one Mr. Jefferson most likely hoped to hear. “Yes,” she affirmed. “Yes, I do.”

And it appeared she was correct in her assumption. Mr. Jefferson smiled and shifted closer to her in his seat. “Good. I enjoy the way you used natural light in your photograph. If you’re interested, I might have an additional assignment for you,” he announced.

“Really? What is it, Mr. Jefferson?”

The professor then stood up and approached the showcase. He pulled out a Canon DSLR camera and placed it before her. Next to it landed a few accessories and a camera bag. “I appreciate how good you are at taking photos with a Polaroid.” He sank back into his chair, and continued, “However, I think that your talent deserves a more advanced equipment.”

“Mr. Jefferson, I can’t take this.” Max shook her head in protest, gently scraping the camera forward against the surface of the desk to return it.

“Consider it a loan then.”

“You’re lending me a camera to take more selfi– more _self-portraits?_  ”

“Not exactly,” Mr. Jefferson chuckled again, evidently getting more amused by Max’s sheer confusion. “I’d rather you use it to play with sunlight. The forecasts suggest the sunny weather will go on for another week or so, thus I thought you might want to make use of it and try out this camera.”

Max’s disorientation eventually diminished, making room for a thrilled smile. “Oh. That would be great, actually. Thank you, Mr. Jefferson.”

“You’re welcome, Max. I’ll be even more delighted if you show your gratitude by taking good pictures.”

She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect no less. Now… tell me what’s important to keep in mind when you shoot in direct sunlight,” Mr. Jefferson queried.

“I usually wait for the right intensity. Sometimes clouds are more helpful than not,” Max recounted. “If I plan my shoot, I take a big piece of cardboard with me to create some shadows.”

“Yes, good. What else?”

“Um…I move around, of course, to get the best angle. I often go for wide shots rather than closeups. Oh, and I know it’s important to mind your white balance or use a lens hood, though I haven’t had much of a chance to try it out myself.”

“Or use a fill flash,” Mr. Jefferson added. “How about aperture settings?”

“Sunny 16 rule.”

“Yes. ISO?”

“200.”

“And shutter speed?”

“Uh…1/200, if I remember correctly.”

Mr. Jefferson smiled approvingly. “That is indeed correct. Max, it is splendid to see how much you know already. One last thing—do you have a photo editor?”

Max’s lucky strike seemed to have ended with this concluding question. “No, actually,” she admitted with a bit of shame. What kind of a serious photographer _didn’t_ have a photo editor?

“Not to worry. You can use _Neonvault_ on the computer in the Art class after hours. Just ask the janitor to give you the key if I’m not there. Cool?”

“Cool,” she agreed with a smile.

“Alright. I’m very much looking forward to reviewing your photographs.” Mr. Jefferson then passed her a small, rectangular, cardboard piece of paper. It had a white font spilled over a black canvas, and appeared so stylish and elegant despite its minimalistic design. “Here’s my business card. You’ll find my email address on it. Would you mind sending your work over to me?”

Max grabbed the card and had a quick glance its contents. There was also Mr. Jefferson’s cell number on it. She wasn’t sure if this was intentional or not, but it was definitely a privilege to receive. “Of course, sir,” she replied.

“Good. Make sure there’s no quality loss when you upload the photographs.”

“Will do. And, um…” Max hesitated for but a moment, but then rummaged through her bag and retrieved her wallet. “Uh…thank you again, Mr. Jefferson, for paying this morning. I’m real–”

“Max, are you trying to pay me back?” Mr. Jefferson huffed with a great dose bafflement in his voice.

“Well, y-yes, shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s–”

“Please don’t be _daft_ , Max,” he cut in again. “I won’t take any money from you.”

Max’s arms slumped down in resignation. She sighed quietly and glimpsed at the professor with an evident chagrin that he rejected her offer. “Are you sure?”

Mr. Jefferson countered her reaction with an empathetic smile. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t dare,” he soothed. He eyed her for a few moments until Max felt the corners of her lips rise anew. “Lovely. Now scram, go have fun with the camera,” he added playfully, and winked at her.

 

 

The trees down the road seemed so much more pensive and somber in this twilight. Driving the car, Mark glanced to his right for a moment. On the passenger’s seat, there was lying a red binder he’d collected from the Dark Room on his way home; one of many in his miscellany of beautiful, tortured faces. He offered the binder a soft yet dark gaze, and smiled to himself with contentment. ‘Lynn’ was going to accompany him this evening.

Chiaroscuro ingratiatingly greeted its master at the threshold, and received a little ruffle on its back in return.

“Hey, bud,” Mark said softly. The cat purred and rubbed itself against Mark’s ankles, just like it’d done this morning. It couldn’t possibly be aware of it, but perhaps it really was just being mercenary. It looked up at its owner, almost appearing as though it was smiling. “Oh, I know you. Hold on for just a second.”

With the cat trotting between and around his feet, Mark headed to the kitchen carefully, so as not to step onto any paw or the tail. He then placed a fully filled bowl on the floor. Soon, after being thoroughly fed, Chiaroscuro escaped into its own space to slumber away the remainder of the day, thus allowing Mark to truly turn off and rest. And so, after his own dinner, consumed by a delicate jazz melody, Mark’s thoughts drifted towards a reverie going by the lovely name “Maxine.”

He gently grasped the photograph she’d given him between his thumb and index finger, admiring it in the quiet space of the living room. Though he greatly despised the name “selfie” as well as the entire _idiotic_ trend, there was something refreshing in Maxine’s technique and approach towards self-portraiture. There was attention to framing, natural light and shadows, details in the background, and the facial expression itself.

Her fragile face was in the very middle of the shot, illuminated by the rising sun; its golden rays submerged in her blue irises. No shadow eclipsed her face. There was a light, chaste smile on her slightly parted lips, adding even more brightness into her eyes. Her brown hair appeared much fairer now, and encircled her visage like a delicate tiara.

A spontaneous photograph like this one, performed with such precision and finesse, certainly took quite a natural talent to produce. Maxine definitely possessed the potential he’d suspected in her. His hopes weren’t unfounded, much to his delight. The photograph was undoubtedly a very good one, but it wasn’t why Mark had been so stunned upon seeing it. 

It was all because of those _beautiful_ , wide eyes; that ocean of pure blue staring directly into his. Yes, he’d seen them up close, but not quite like _this_ , not with all that sunshine within. Maxine’s gaze was _angelic_.

“Oh, _those eyes_ …” he murmured wistfully to himself; the tone of his voice so dreamy and elated.

And as unlikely as that was, he could _swear_ he’d seen them somewhere before, long before meeting their gorgeous owner.

_Who are you, Maxine?_

 

. . .

 

Secluded within the confinements of his home office, he placed the open binder on the desk, buttoned down his shirt, and pulled down his pants together with the underwear before sitting down comfortably.

Of course, Mark kept the same tidy and finely-groomed standard all around his body. He regularly took care of himself and maintained a fit physique, rendering himself a fairly muscly man. Fortunately for him, he wasn’t overly hairy by nature, thus there was no need to shave it all off. It was more of a decoration sprinkled onto his skin than something redundant. However, his most intimate parts were always impeccably kempt. He also was of the opinion that there was no need for excessive skin, so he’d gotten rid of it years ago for the hygiene and aesthetics’ sake. Certainly no partner of his had ever complained.

He squeezed a moderate amount of an unscented lotion onto his palm—any scent that didn’t match his memory would only interfere with recalling it as faithfully as he could. Firmly grasping the shaft, he gave into the endeavor, gliding his palm up and down the length in achingly slow strokes. The stolen moments in front of him were so tragically beautiful. He gazed into Lynn’s frightened eyes with a rising pleasure; the intoxicating, exhilarating feeling of holding power, which compensated for all the times when he hadn’t been the one in control.

But there was never any need to touch the subjects or to interrupt the session to surrender to his strange desires. It was more like creating a bound space where innocent souls disappeared and transformed into something different. Afterwards, shrouded in a peaceful solitude, he was able to admire the artistic side of the photographs and relive these precious moments—just like he was right now, for instance, gasping in passion and moaning softly.

Not all faces were showing terror. A portion of each session presented the subject asleep. Their expressions were gentle, calm, harmonious. Still innocent. These recollections were thus much more soothing and relaxing. They weren’t about regaining control; they were simply enjoyment, both for the mind and the body.

Since Mark’s stay in Arcadia Bay, acquiring new subjects was much easier than before. Nathan, who had an easy access to drugs and high school parties, was responsible for bringing in models safely and _quietly_. It was undoubtedly crucial that no one make any connections to Mark—he had far too much to risk putting his name under. As infuriating as it was, his art wouldn’t be deservedly appreciated by the public anyway. And if there was ever any need for it, Nathan would have to take the fall for the illegal side of it all.

The kid wasn’t without a talent, of course. For one, he had an eye for shadows. Mark honestly liked teaching him; Nathan showed an actual admiration for Mark’s vision and the style of his art, and he wasn’t the worst company either. He had also no idea what Mark sometimes did with those binders, nor should he. Everyone is entitled to a few secrets of just their own.

However, an evening like this one was a rather rare occurrence. Mark preferred to review his art over a glass of whiskey and a jazz record spinning endlessly; to marvel at his own genius. This carnal pleasure was just an added benefit.

Mark dressed back up and scrupulously washed his hands once endeavor was finished, and proceeded with indulging in a bit of entertainment in the living room. He wasn’t paying attention to the moving pictures on the screen, and soon sensed fatigue coming on.

There was a sudden thudding on the front door. Startled, Mark awoke, turned off the television, and stood up from the sofa. Slowly, he made his way towards the source of the sound. The intruder was clearly impatient, continuously banging their fist on the door with more and more force.

Through the peephole, Mark was able to find out who it was. Nathan.

 _Finally_.

Mark opened the door and scrutinized the kid with his gaze. Reddened eyes, the stench of weed, and legs evidently made of cotton.

“You’re high,” he scolded Nathan, disapprovingly crossing his arms. “ _Again_.”

Nathan burst in, tottering on his feet. “Yeah, so what? Meds make me way more stoned than this shit,” he murmured, grunting under his breath and rolling his eyes at Mark.

 _Always with the back-talk_.

It annoyed Mark to no end, if he was being honest with himself. But it was crucial to keep up the concerned mask and retain the kid’s trust. Just as suspected, he was in a fragile state of mind, and it would be very easy to set him off.

“Nevermind,” Mark wavered, shutting the front door. “Where on earth have you been, Nathan? I’ve actually been worried.”

“On a bender.”

“For _days?_  ”

“Yeah. It was a wild party. You know how Blackwell rolls,” Nathan said with a crooked, tired smile, and held himself by the stomach as he stumbled towards the living room. Mark followed him through the arch door, and the two stopped by the table.

“Please don’t throw up in here,” Mark groaned. “And yes. Unfortunately, I know all about it. But it would’ve been nice if you’d at least told me what you were up to.”

“Fine, sorry,” the kid remitted. He winced in pain trying to sit down, and gritted his teeth as he finally did. “Won’t happen again.”

Mark’s gaze hardened. “I hope so, Nathan. We need to get back to our work. It’s important to me, and it should be important to you as well.”

“I know.”

“I _won’t_ put in more time and effort into something that’s not appreciated. You cannot—I repeat— _cannot_ forego your talent,” Mark pressed. “Not after everything we’ve been trying to achieve.”

“ _I know_ , alright?” Nathan snapped, shooting a disgruntled glare towards his teacher-slash-pretend-father. “Geez. No need to fucking tell me twice.”

Mark’s jaw clenched and his face twitched in anger, but he stopped himself from retorting. “Can you promise me to be more careful next time?” he queried instead, looking tellingly as his protégé.

Pain flickered across Nathan’s features. “I promise,” he said quietly, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret, anguish, and reproach. Mark had agreed not to bring up the subject again, but he was still weary of Nathan, distrustful even, and now the kid knew it for certain.

“Can I trust you?”

“You _can_.”

“Good, Nathan,” Mark praised, his face assuming that uncharacteristic softness whenever he wanted to ease his protégé. “I’m going to think of a model I’d like for you to bring to me, and then we’ll slowly get back to work. Maybe first we photograph something _you_ want. Cool?”

Nathan sighed, but there was a discernable relief in there as well. “Cool.”

“So, anything happen between you and your father? Did he say something to you?” Mark asked. He could definitely relate to Nathan about having lousy parents. It was one of the reasons he was able to get along with his protégé on a more personal level. In some ways, the two had a mutual understanding.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Mark pressed his lips together. “Right. You hungry?”

The kid shrugged. “A little, I guess.”

Mark strode over to the fridge and fetched a leftover sandwich. “That okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Nathan sank his teeth into the bread and chewed on the first bite with an apparent gratitude. He paused abruptly before taking another one, and looked up at Mark with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “And, uh…Mark?”

“Hm?”

“Can I crash here tonight?” Nathan asked quietly.

“Sure. You can sleep on the sofa,” Mark responded, beginning to head towards the staircase. “And you know where the blanket is.”

 


End file.
